


A Magister's Hold

by Syrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is dying.  Without Danarius, his lyrium markings are slowly killing him, taking away the life he has built for himself and the freedom he has grown to relish.  With little choice, he turns to Hawke for help, who introduces the elf to Dorian, a Tevinter mage, and someone whom the elf instinctively loathes.</p><p>Dorian is in equal measure appalled and fascinated by the lyrium brands; yet more proof of the atrocities of his homeland.  He vows to help Fenris, whether the elf likes it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lyrium Burns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moiraine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiraine/gifts).



> Another kink meme prompt!

He hurt, of course he did. Everything always hurt. Fenris groaned, rolling over to prop himself up, head already pounding behind still-closed eyelids. Every morning was like this, waking to a pain that he should be used to by now, but for some reason his body just couldn’t adjust. The elf struggled to stand, rolling off the bed as it was easier than trying to sit on the edge of the well-worn mattress, atop a bed no one had slept in for months. He stood with a slight stoop to his stance, bare to the early morning chill, finally forcing his eyes to open. It was easier if he moved, forced himself to work the limbs that screamed at him whether he remained still or not. The lyrium running through his markings groaned now, rather than singing, and lighting it proved far more difficult than it had before. Phasing through objects, or people, had long since become an impossibility, causing enough pain that it brought him to his knees should he so much as try.

Fenris could hear shouting from outside; some small scuffle or other, nothing unusual for Kirkwall considering the position they were in, though it did seem a little early for such squabbles. Silence fell once more, and he moved to dress, as slow and pained as an old man might. His lyrium veins seemed to loosen as he flexed, lacing himself into his breeches, and the elf couldn’t help the sigh that escaped his lips as the pain began to subside. It would never vanish completely, but it was enough that he could function.

His return to Kirkwall had been at the behest of Aveline; she needed the help, what with Sebastian and his army pounding at their door while still trying to keep at least some semblance of order within the city. On top of that, with most of the elves gone - Merril’s doing, and for once Fenris found himself approving of something the petite blood mage had chosen to do - the alienage had become little more than a human slum, from which people had apparently been disappearing. More and more each day had vanished, over a hundred before the Guard-Captain had been informed. Slavers, she deduced, and with her own forces spread increasingly thin, the flame-haired warrior had called in Fenris.

He had tracked the slavers down within a few hours of his arrival; they had grown lax, what with the mess Kirkwall was in, and had long since stopped covering their tracks. It hadn’t been necessary, but a small group of Inquisition soldiers - freshly arrived to help Aveline deal with Sebastian’s invading army - had accompanied the elf. They had dispatched the slavers in no time, freeing what few snatched humans remained in their cages, with word sent back for spies to locate the rest of the captives. It was an easy job; there were no mages, and with the soldiers there to back him up, the task was done in record time. Still, it had tired him, as any excursion seemed to of late.

“You look like shit.” Another might have startled, turned, lashed out at the voice in what should have been an empty room. Fenris, however, was used to this. He turned only slightly, glaring with one eye at the pirate who had situated herself against his door frame, arms crossed over her ample bosom and watching him dress, her expression unreadable.

“As would you, were our positions reversed.” The elf grumbled, shrugging on his leather jerkin. He frowned at Isabela’s appearance – what was the term? ‘Walk of shame’? “Why are you here, ‘Admiral’?” He huffed, finally turning away from the woman. It was none of his business, of course, who she chose as her bed partner, but he had to wonder at her supposedly still ongoing relationship with Hawke if she was still bedding another. Still, knowing Hawke, he had likely somehow suggested it.

“I take it you’re not pleased to see me, then.” She huffed, shifting from one foot to the other, but otherwise making no move to leave. She watched as Fenris struggled to fasten the straps on his chest plate, knowing not to offer assistance, though her fingers twitched reflexively regardless.

“The last time we heard from you, you’d run off with the Raiders.” He finally managed to attach one side, with something of a triumphant hum, before moving to start on the other. “I didn’t expect to see you back in Kirkwall.”

“I could say the same about you.” Isabela finally moved, sashaying over to the moth-eaten chair by the unlit fire, positioning herself on the increasingly uncomfortable piece of furniture. “Killing Tevinter slavers, pretty much your perfect job. I hadn’t expected to bump into you here.”

“And yet here we both are.” Fenris agreed, pausing for a moment as a particularly sharp pain lanced through him.

“And you still look like shit.” She sighed, moving a strand of hair from where it had fallen onto her face. “You and I both know you can’t keep going on like this.”

“I am managing just fine.” The elf growled, swiftly followed by the clang of metal on stone as his fingers gave out and the gauntlet he had been holding crashed to the floor.

“Just fine.” Isabela repeated, her mouth a hard line and eyes sharp.

“It’s worse in the mornings.” Fenris muttered, flexing the digits on his left hand before trying to attach the gauntlet once more. “Lyrium potions help somewhat.” Silence reigned, then, the sound of metal and leather seeming louder than it perhaps should have, as the elf was finally able to finish dressing himself. What once took mere minutes, now dragged out over more than half an hour. The patter of light rain could be heard through the broken window out onto the balcony, along with the chatter of people on the street outside, trying to retain some sort of normality in the chaos of war.

“I know where Hawke is.” Isabela finally broke the heavy silence, her voice low, almost meek. Fenris spun on his heel to face her, regretting it almost instantly as his head span and he stumbled. The pirate darted forward, one hand on his shoulder, steadying the elf and Fenris could not bring himself to chide her for it. She passed him a vial of lyrium, and he all but downed it, the viscous liquid lining his mouth and throat, hating himself for needing something previously reserved for mages only, hating Danarius more for forcing this addiction on him.

“Where?” It was all he could manage after gulping down the vile-tasting liquid, feeling it work through the markings, making them glow ever so slightly and relieving the worst of the pains.

“He’s with the Inquisition, for now at least.” She let go of his shoulder, stepping back to regard her friend. “I’ve already spoken with one of the generals they sent; there’s a small troupe heading back to their base in three days time, mostly wounded soldiers and messengers. They could use a strong sword arm to help keep bandits away, and have agreed to take you with them, if you want to go.”

“I have work here, I cannot just leave.” Fenris protested, albeit weakly.

“I’ve spoken with Aveline as well, she says to thank you for dealing with the slavers, and that she doesn’t have any more work for you at present.” Placing her hand on her hip and shifting her weight, Isabela fixed Fenris with a look he knew well, one that told him he perhaps shouldn’t argue. “She is as worried about you as the rest of us, and would likely drag you all the way to Hawke herself if she could.”

“And what of you?” The elf replied, stunned by what she was telling him. “You won’t be joining us?”

“Not this time.” The pirate smiled ruefully, shaking her head slightly. “There are matters I need to attend to, and besides,” She shrugged. “I’d be a distraction.”

“I...thank you, my friend.” Despite how many years he had known the woman, and how close they had been at one time, Fenris was struggling to come to terms with what she had done, with the fact that she had thought of his well being at all.

“If anyone knows how to fix this, it’s Hawke.” Isabela reached forward then, pulling him into a gentle embrace that he did not try to fend off.


	2. Moving Forward

The trip had taken longer than expected; Fenris’ markings were giving him far more trouble than usual, that was true, however it was the sheer number of wounded soldiers making the trek back to the castle through snow and ice that meant that they seemed to be moving at a painfully slow pace. What should have taken hours with a healthy team on horseback, stretched into days with wounded on foot with caravans. He thought more than once to head up to Skyhold alone, but the bandits on the road were numerous and as merciless as one might expect, so he kept his position and moved with the men at his side. The soldiers were kind men and women, fighters the lot of them, and not once was he referred to as ‘knife ear’ or treated any differently to one of their own. Perhaps, he thought, in a different life he might have been proud to fight and serve at their sides.

“We should arrive by nightfall.” The captain charged with getting them all safely home had sidled up to him. She was a stocky dwarven lady who barely came up to his stomach, but she was an excellent one to have at your side in a fight. ‘They’ll never see me coming’ she would grin, before lopping off the leg of whichever fool of an enemy stood closest to her. “How you holding up?”

“Just fine.” Fenris grimaced, shaking what to anyone else might have felt like severe cramp from his left leg. It was happening more often, his body rebelling against him, pausing his movements in the middle of the day rather than just in the mornings, causing pain that he could not force down any longer. His breath came shorter than he was used to, ensuring that he spent much of his time panting heavily, as a man might after running some distance, cheeks flushed with more than just the cold.

“Yeah, you look like it.” The dwarf rolled her eyes, giving him a slight nudge with her elbow. “Just don’t go keeling over on me when we’re this close to home, alright?” He nodded, even that small motion causing him pain. He would make it, through sheer force of will if nothing else, even if just to see Hawke for one last time.

He could see Skyhold in the distance, and with every passing hour the impressive structure drew closer. Fenris forced himself onwards, the sight of the castle giving him hope, enough of a reason to struggle on, and it seemed that the rest of the company felt the same way, pushing forward and making good time. In the end, they arrived just before dinner, the sun hanging low on the horizon though with still enough life left in it for a few more hours of light.

“Fenris!” A familiar voice, as they were traipsing across the bridge and through the gates, and the elf turned to greet his friend, words falling short as a pair of armour-clad arms wrapped themselves around him in a great bear hug, the lyrium in his veins screaming at the touch, at any touch, lights popping behind his eyes. Mages were the worst, when they so much as grazed his skin it was like ice needles piercing through his very bones, but what had once been limited to the touch of magic users had spread to any kind of living creature, bar dwarves it seemed.

He remained standing, just barely, leaning against his friend, who was clearly excited to see him. Hawke pulled back, holding him at arms reach, his look of excited relief turning to one of concern and then fear. Fenris tried to open his mouth, to speak, but found that he could not, everything seemingly overloading all at once, and he could not work out why Hawke was looking at him like that, or why the excited chatter on the bridge had changed tone to one of concern.

“Maker, Fenris, what’s happened to you?” He was looking up at Hawke, the dark-haired man kneeling over him, when had that happened? He could feel the cold stones at his back where his exposed skin met with them, causing him to shiver. He was missing something, mind in a fog of almost-unconsciousness, but he would not let go, not yet.

“We need to get him inside, Serah.” Another voice, one he did not recognise, and he was lifted bodily by those all too familiar arms, limp and helpless.

“Lead the way.”

When Fenris next awoke, he was surrounded by people he did not know, all chattering in concerned tones above his head. He felt weak, and so very tired, his head pounding. His mouth tasted of elfroot, and he swallowed, trying to rid himself of the slightly bitter tang.

“Never seen anything like-”

“-would do something-”

“How is it even possible to-”

“-dying?”

Snippets of conversation, many people talking all at once, over and under and how he wished they would leave him be. Footsteps, and all of a sudden his view was blocked by an armour-clad figure, one he knew well and hadn’t expected to see.

“Cullen?” The elf rasped out, squinting at the man leaning over him.

“You’re awake.” The man sounded surprised, but not displeased, helping Fenris to sit so he might take a drink. His hiss of pain earned him a look of sympathy, and one of the men standing nearby turned to fuss over him for a moment, quickly waved away by the blonde.

“Where’s Hawke?” Fenris finally asked as he was laid gently back down on the cot, feeling more than a little exposed as he realised his armour and clothing had been removed, replaced with a simple tunic and leggings. Easy access for healers to do their jobs, he surmised, the garments being somewhat better quality than the ones Anders kept to hand in his clinic in Darktown. The thought brought back pangs of regret, not for the mage as such, but for the past they had all lost due to Anders’ stupidity, and due to their own for not stopping the man while they had the chance.

“He’s speaking with Dorian, to see what can be done.” The man looked grim, taking a seat at the side of the prone form of the elf. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you exactly how bad this is, do I?”

“I’m dying.” Came the quiet reply, Fenris staring up at the ceiling as he finally began to process what that truly meant.

“Of what, we’re not sure. Our healers are assuming it’s the lyrium, but...” Here Cullen paused, shaking his head. “It could be anything. The lyrium could be a red herring, we don’t know.”

“It’s the lyrium, I feel it, I know it.” Of course it was, the one ‘gift’ that Danarius had given him, the curse, the one thing that kept him fighting and free, was not only the thing that bound him to the Magister, it was also to be the end of him. “I can’t imagine anything can be done. The one man who knew how all this worked is dead, by my hand, and it appears that I shall soon follow.”

“I’m not a mage, I can’t say for certain.” Cullen sounded regretful as he stood, laying a hand gently on Fenris’ shoulder for a moment, not realising the pain it caused. “I’m sorry, I have work that needs to be attended to. Perhaps I could come by later, to talk?”

“Of course.” The elf responded, eyes flicking to look at the man. “It seems much has changed.”

“Indeed it has.” The ex-Templar replied with a small smile, before stepping out of his line of view and disappearing from the room, leaving Fenris to his thoughts.


	3. Altus

”You’re awake!” Hawke’s booming voice sounded jovial enough, as he all but bounded across to Fenris’ side, the sound of another set of footsteps close behind and the audible scribble of pen on parchment. “I thought you might have gone and left me. Bella would _kill_ me if that happened.” He grinned and placed a hand over Fenris’ own, the elf wincing slightly at the touch. More scribbling; whoever else was present was charged with taking notes, it seemed.

“I’m fairly certain she would kill me as well, somehow.” Fenris chuckled darkly, managing to push himself upright with some effort, having had enough of staring at the ceiling for the moment. If he was to die soon, he would rather do it on his feet, not flat on his back like some invalid.

“Perhaps.” Hawke laughed, beckoning at whoever had accompanied him into the room, the man stepping forward. “Fenris, this is-”

“Dorian, of the house Pavus, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The step and bow was almost as elegant as the man himself. He was tall and well built, particularly for a mage, the white and black robes that he wore, or what passed for robes in Tevinter at least, fit his form perfectly, as though he had been poured into them, revealing his status. Tan skin, slightly darker than Fenris’ own as the high class in Tevinter tended to be, ensured that the man stood out from the pale-skinned Orlesians and even paler Fereldens who wandered Skyhold, giving him an exotic air, while perfectly coiffed hair and immaculately styled moustache ensured that anyone who might be looking knew full well he was beyond their reach. Fenris saw all of this, and yet none of it, as his lip curling upwards in disdain, eyes flashing as he lashed out verbally at Hawke.

“Faste vaas! After everything you know, everything you have seen, you bring this...this _magister_ here?!” He practically spat the title, whatever pains he had been feeling forgotten in place of the burning hate which had rooted itself in the pit of his stomach. Before he knew what he was doing, Fenris had swung his legs around off the cot and was standing before Hawke, the lyrium brands flickering as though they were trying - and failing - to light.

“Altus, not magister.” Dorian sighed wearily, having already corrected, and explained, the same misconception three times previously that very day, curling the corner of his moustache between two fingers, more of an unconscious gesture than actual preening.

“Vishanti caevas!” Fenris rounded on the mage then, Dorian seemingly unaffected by the furious elf as he continued to take notes. “What you choose to call yourself bears no reflection on what you are; an abomination, a scourge on Thedas, a parasite.” He lurched into Tevene then, Hawke staring dumbfounded as words he could not even begin to understand tumbled from the elf’s lips. Even Dorian seemed taken aback by the level of abuse he was receiving, though he remained silent throughout the tirade, until Fenris finally fell silent, the only sound remaining coming from a bird chirping somewhere outside the window. Even those in the hallway outside the room had grown quiet, listening, though none there could understand what was happening within.

“Look.” Hawke seemed to snap back to reality then, crossing his arms over his armoured chest and staring down at his friend with a level of intensity that Fenris barely registered. “Either you let Dorian help, or you die, slowly and painfully from the looks of it. Now, I’m not about to let you die, so the way I see it you don’t have any choice.”

“Oh, he has a choice.” Dorian added, stepping around slightly so he could take a look at Fenris’ back, scribbling further notes, most of the markings hidden by cloth and yet in places still visible even through that. “From what you have told me, this was forced upon him, along with a great many other things, by my countrymen. I will not do the same. If he wants my help, I give it freely, but Fenris will need to be the one to make the decision.”

“You would love that, wouldn’t you mage? To watch me die, the culmination of Tevinter’s work.” Fenris was still bristling with anger, though his initial burst of fury had subsided enough that he was starting to struggle once more, wobbling slightly as he stood.

“From what I can gather, this was the work of one rather unpleasant magister, not Tevinter as a whole.” Dorian replied as sensibly as he could, honey-coloured eyes, not entirely dissimilar to Fenris’ own green ones, snapped up to regard the elf.

“A symptom of the disease.” He was fast losing the battle to remain on his feet, Hawke all but carrying the exhausted elf back to the cot, forcing Fenris to sit lest he fall.

“I won’t deny the truth in that. The magister in question is dead now, correct?” There was a certain amount of grim satisfaction on the mage’s face at that, and although Fenris missed it entirely, Hawke saw it clear as day.

“Does it pain you, knowing that a slave murdered one of your own?” He wanted to lash out, to pin the mage to the wall and remove his heart, as he had done with so many of his kind. To rid the world of another corrupt magister, before he could even truly become one, that would be a victory in itself.

“Not at all. To have done this to you, and likely others, the man deserved no less than death. And in answer to your first question, no, I would rather you didn’t die, considering I am well acquainted with at least three people who would be saddened by your death, and I would not inflict this on them.”

Fenris sat in silence for a good long time after that, Hawke at his side. Dorian left them to it, though not before informing Hawke of where to find him once he had an answer. Cullen returned momentarily with some parchment or other for Hawke, the large warrior taking it with a muttered thanks, not bothering to read the missive. Fenris did not meet the Commander’s eyes, remaining deep in thought, brow furrowed, barely acknowledging his presence, and so they were left alone again.

“I really don’t want to lose you, my friend.” Hawke finally murmured, breaking the silence.

“I know.” The reply was quiet, accompanied by a slump of the shoulders.

“I don’t think you wish to die either, do you?” There was a gloved hand on his shoulder then, pressing unknowingly against one of the larger lyrium lines that trailed over his skin. Fenris shrugged it off, just barely, not noticing the hurt look on Hawke’s features.

“Does anyone?” Fenris’ head dropped further, silvered hair falling to obscure his face.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“ _He_ is.”

“It’s a temporary problem. You’ll be free of Dorian once this is all over, and besides, I trust him. He won’t cause you harm.” It was never that simple, Fenris knew that Hawke knew this, and yet it sounded so perfect coming from that ever-optimistic mouth.

“You trusted Anders, also.” Hawke winced at that, looking away, guilt and regret colouring his features.

“That was different. He wasn’t-” The man paused, swallowing thickly. “Anders wasn’t really Anders at the end, he was something else. He wasn’t the man we knew.”

“He was an abomination.”

“He was. Dorian isn’t.”

“But he has the capacity to be.”

“As do you.” What Hawke said was true, Fenris had to admit to himself, truer than Hawke knew, at least for now. The night terrors had been getting worse, and the lyrium under his skin drew the spirits to him like moths to a flame, even on the waking side of the veil demons made a beeline for him, picking him out amongst dozens of others and converging on the elf as if sensing his growing weakness.

“But I will not.” He would sooner die, though that was fast becoming the only possibility.

“And you are so certain he will?”

“He is a mage, all mages succumb eventually.” Frustrated, tired and in so much pain a weaker man might have cried, Fenris knew even as the words left his mouth that he had lost the argument, the elf resorting to exaggerations and untruths.

“You know that isn’t true as well as I do. Bethany hasn’t, a great many mages have lived out their whole lives without ever resorting to blood magic or demons.”

“And how does that help the families of those murdered by the ones who do?” Fenris snapped back, hands clenched in his lap.

“We deal with it, as always, but that isn’t what you said.” Hawke had every reason to be defensive, and yet he wasn’t, the warrior as calm and collected as ever, which left the elf feeling more than a little guilty. He respected Bethany, respected what she did for the Wardens, and there were at least a handful of other mages he had grown - begrudgingly - to trust.

“I know, I overstepped and it was unnecessary. I am...sorry.”

“Will you let him help you, then?” There was a note of hope in Hawke’s voice, and it made the guilt at what he was putting the man through all the more difficult to bear.

“For now.” The elf grunted, unsure entirely how he felt about the whole thing, aside from his love for his friend, the unwavering hatred for a mage he didn’t know, and his own desire to cling onto the life he wasn’t yet ready to give up.

“Good. I’ll let him know so we can get started.” Surging up from the cot, a wide grin on his handsome face, Hawke spared one last look at the hunched elf, noting how small Fenris seemed, how unlike his usual self, and knew they did not have long.

“Hawke?” The larger man paused in the doorway, one hand on the door frame, turning only slightly and not enough to look back.

“Yes, my friend?” Hawke could feel Fenris’ eyes on him then, could almost see the lost and perhaps a little bit frightened expression on his companion’s face.

“I raised my voice at you, when all you wanted to do was help. I am sorry for that, also.”

“All is forgiven, just focus on getting better.” Hawke left then, before he could say anything more, afraid anything further might betray the helplessness he felt, wondering if they were already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maker's ass, this one was a pain to write! I hope I got it right; what I have in my head is not translating well into words. It may require a rewrite once the story has concluded.


	4. Scars

”I have never seen anything like these before.” Dorian marvelled at the markings on Fenris’ bare arms, hovering inches from the exposed skin, yet never quite touching. “The lines are unbelievably precise, are they like this all over?” The mage looked up, all wide-eyed excitement, and Fenris nodded in response without meeting his eyes. 

“They don’t do this sort of thing often in Tevinter, then?” Hawke asked, looking on with a certain amount of curiosity, having been asked rather specifically by both Fenris and Dorian to remain in the room, for now at least, neither one feeling overly comfortable around the other.

“No, I wasn’t even aware such a thing was possible, until now at least.” The mage replied, moving around the stool he had placed in the middle of the room for his charge. “Exquisite.” It came out as more of a breath than a spoken word, Dorian stepping back for a moment to lean against his desk, rifling through his notes until he found what he was looking for, adding lines to a diagram of something resembling a series of runes.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.” Fenris sneered, back straight and fists clenched, painfully aware of every motion the man made as he flitted around the room, hopping from bookshelf to desk and back to the elf once more.

“I’m not sure ‘enjoying’ is the right word, but they are utterly fascinating. Horrific, but fascinating, and surprisingly beautiful.” He paused for a moment, tapping his bottom hip in thought, making sure to stand within Fenris’ line of sight so the patient would not startle; Dorian had already received a taste of the ex-slave’s righteous anger, and had no wish to see more.

“What?” The elf finally snapped, glaring up at the man, who was fiddling with that damnable moustache again.

“Would it be at all possible, and you are free to decline my request if you so wish, to see more of the design?”

“Will it speed up the process and have you out of my life quicker?” Fenris growled, more than a little displeased at the request. Hawke was here, though, and any improper behaviour by the mage would incur the wrath of not one, but two skilled warriors.

“Rude.” Dorian huffed, though he didn’t seem overly offended. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me, Fenris.”

“Perceptive.” Came the sarcastic reply, that curl of lip becoming all too familiar to the Tevinter mage. “And I ask that you not use that name, mage.”

“What would you have me call you, then? ‘Grumpy elf’?”

“Varric prefers ‘broody’, I think.” Hawke added with a grin, enjoying their exchange a little too much.

“Elf will do fine.” Fenris snapped, shooting the dark haired warrior a glare that earned him a chuckle from the taller man.

“Well, now that we are on not-first-name terms, can I ask that you remove at least part of your attire so we can continue?” Dorian stood and waited, back to the grumbling elf, flicking through a book the Inquisitor had managed to source for him from somewhere on ancient elven practices and the history of vallaslin. He could hear the sound of rustling cloth, then the light thud of something hitting the ground, and when he finally turned back around and snapped his book shut, he found the white-haired elf to be bare from the waist up.

“Do not stare, mage.” Fenris snapped, that piercing gaze never wavering. Dorian found that he had, indeed, been staring, though not for the reason the elf had implied.

“Surely that’s what I’m here for?” He stepped forward, crouching before the scowling elf, fingers floating but never touching, mentally tracing each line, each delicate curl and perfect point. “May I?” The mage’s hand hovered just above the skin of Fenris’ chest, the markings there bolder than those on his arms, and yet somehow darker.

“Do what you must.” Came the huffed response, jumping slightly as warm hands pressed against his skin. Dorian let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding, marvelling at how the markings felt under his fingertips, the difference in the texture of the skin there, notably more solid and yet smoother than the skin surrounding it.

“Tell me if anything I do hurts at all, or feels, I don’t know, different. Abnormal. Worthy of note, anyway.”

“Abnormal would be my tolerating your hands on me.” 

“Fenris...” Hawke warned, earning a huff from the elf.

“Fine. What you’re doing now? That hurts.” At that Dorian pulled back, hovering once more without touching. Fenris never once looked away from the man, distrust evident on his face, and the mage made certain to keep his gaze lowered, almost subservient.

“Can you elaborate on that at all? What is the pain like, where can you feel it?” Visibly, the brands hadn’t reacted to his touch at all, but he could feel the pull of lyrium from below the skin, below that even, near-invisible lines of the stuff stretching deep into tissue and bone, making removal impossible without killing the elf.

“It’s sharp, and cold, like blades of ice.”

“Interesting.” Dorian paused for a moment, before lightly running a finger down one of the lighter tattoos on the elf’s arm. “And this?”

“Like needles. Not as intense.” 

They went back and forth, Dorian trying different pressures while Fenris tried to describe the sensation, occasionally wincing if too much pressure was applied, until the mage was satisfied that they had covered every line in detail, on his patient’s chest and arms at least. Dorian was very careful not to travel too far south, not after the near-violent twitch he received at accidentally brushing Fenris’ abdomen, and he did not feel that the elf trusted him enough yet to move out of his sight or up onto the more sensitive neck and chin areas.

“Let me make a quick sketch, and we are done for the day.” They had been at it for hours, and Fenris was clearly tired. Hawke had become bored part way through, and had taken his place by the fire, leafing through some tome or other while the pair worked, though had long since grown silent, aside from the occasional grunt or snore. “We can resume tomorrow, once you have had a chance to rest.”

“I am fine, mage. Continue.” The scowl he earned caused Dorian to raise an eyebrow at the stubborn elf, and as tempting as it was to carry on poking and prodding at his patient, he could see that Fenris was starting to weaken, still not fully recovered from the long and arduous trip to Skyhold.

“No, I need to gather my thoughts and see if a solution has presented itself as of yet. I won’t put you through more than is absolutely necessary.” Dorian stood and turned, heading back towards his notes to fetch fresh parchment.

“I said I am _fine_.” Fenris growled, grabbing the retreating mage’s wrist, his grip surprisingly firm, angry green eyes seeming to pierce right through him. Dorian swallowed thickly and just nodded, resuming his position.

“With your permission,Fen-” Dorian paused, almost forgetting himself for a moment. “Elf, I’m going to try using magic.” He kept his voice low, watching for any sign that the elf needed him to back off. “Not much, just a little. I have a theory that the lyrium inside you is reacting in the same way that natural lyrium veins do, giving off a huge amount of energy, meaning that if I tug gently on it with my magic, it may relieve the pressure.”

“If you try anything funny, mage, I will kill you.” There it was, that now-familiar growl, the threat assuredly not an idle one. Dorian was starting to wonder if the supposed ‘hidden depths’ that Hawke had assured him were there, just beneath the surface of the surly elf’s character, were actually a fabrication in one of Varric’s awful attempts at literature.

“I have no intention of doing anything ‘funny’, I assure you. Now, shall we get started?” Fenris just nodded at that, the hands at his chest pressing down lightly once more, and for a moment the pain was raw and sharp, but then Dorian’s face changed, the concentration there evident, and the pain was just...gone.

“I don’t understand.” There was confusion there, and Fenris very nearly reached up to the hand on his chest, before catching himself and lowering his arm back down.

“It doesn’t hurt?” Dorian asked, almost hopefully.

“No.” A shake of the head, and the confused expression melted into one of almost wonder, and while Dorian did not outwardly acknowledge it, he stored it away for later use.

“Excellent.” He began to move, then, tracing and retracing the intricate lines, keeping his link to the lyrium weak, not wishing to cause further damage. After a few moments of this, he felt Fenris react under his touch, his body visibly relaxing and a small, contented sigh slipping from between his lips. The sound seemed to surprise both of them, as shocked amber met horrified green, and before he could so much as blink Dorian found himself half way across the room, the boot to his chest having caught him completely off guard.

Fenris stood, grabbing his discarded clothing, and stormed from the room, the door closing with a loud bang behind him and papers fluttering from the desk at the sudden blast of cold air. Dorian was left winded, gasping for breath, and not entirely sure on what had just happened. A loud snore from the chair by the fire assured him that Hawke had managed to sleep through the whole thing.


	5. One Step Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't even finished this one yet and already I have an idea for a sequel.
> 
> Oops...

”You kicked him in the head?” Hawke simply stared at the elf, aghast.

“In the chest, and yes, I did.” Fenris nodded, sipping at his drink, enjoying the buzz more than the flavour.

“Who got kicked in the head?” Krem settled himself across from Hawke, followed by a handful of others, the ‘Chargers’, Fenris thought he had heard them referred to as, but he wasn’t bothered enough to confirm it.

“Dorian! Maker, he’s going to stop agreeing to help you - and, by extension, me - if you keep this up.” The large warrior at his side groaned into his hands, a few drinks ahead of Fenris and it was starting to show.

“It wasn’t his head.” The elf added, not protesting so much, more correcting.

“Don’t you worry.” Bull clapped Hawke on the shoulder, practically knocking him into his tankard of ale. “Dorian’s too nice for that, though don’t tell him I told you.” He laughed, downing his own drink and calling for another round.

“So why’d you kick the Vint?” Krem asked, curiously, not entirely sure what to make of the strange elf just yet. Fenris paused for a moment, staring into his half-empty mug of whatever cheap swill had been bought for him.

“I swear, if you say ‘because he’s a mage’ I’m going to hang you up by your legs and make you repeat the Chant of Light until dawn.” Hawke interrupted his ale-fuelled musings, Fenris’ line of sight suddenly blocked by an accusatory finger, just that bit too close to his face.

“But he _is_ a mage!” Fenris protested, knocking the hand aside, unsure whether he should really be arguing or not; for one, he didn’t know the Chant, and aside from that he knew Hawke would follow through on his threat one way or another.

“Which is the only reason he’s able to help you.”

“I’m not apologising.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Hawke sighed, looking rather like he was about to lose the will to live. “Just don’t do it again, alright?”

“Fine. I will...restrain myself. For now.”

“Yeah, ass like his, it’s hard to restrain yourself sometimes.” Bull smirked, making Fenris choke on his drink, while the rest of the table erupted into peals of laughter.

Fenris was forced to retreat back to the room he had been assigned not too long after that, the pain in his brands returning after a matter of hours, seemingly worse than before, or at least it seemed it after the brief respite. Worried eyes had watched him leave; Hawke, he understood, but the rest of them? He didn’t know them, they had no right to insert themselves in his business, and his state of health was most certainly his business. So busy was he in focusing on the unnecessary annoyance he felt, that the elf didn’t notice the armour-clad man following at a distance, watching his slow walk back to his room, before disappearing back to the tavern with a satisfied nod when he was certain that Fenris was safe.

The morning brought new problems; getting out of bed, for one, was proving nigh on impossible. The combination of whatever medicine he was being forced to take, along with the ale from the previous night, meant that Fenris had slept better and for longer than he had in months, perhaps even years. While that meant he was thoroughly rested, the lack of movement over the night meant his limbs just wouldn’t move, the elf staring at the ceiling for coming up to an hour before Hawke found him like that.

“We’re going to get Dorian to take another look at you.” This earned the man a growl from Fenris, who otherwise remained quiet. “No, this is ridiculous, Fenris. You need to let him help you, he’s the only one who can.”

“I’ll find another way.”

“You can barely find your own shoelaces at the moment.” Hawke sighed, finishing tying the offending lace before standing. “There is no other way, and you know it. I said it before and I will say it again; I am not losing you, Fenris. Not to this, and not to anything else.” Fenris stared up at his friend, a pang of...something, in his chest. Guilt, perhaps. He swallowed it down, along with the medicine Hawke handed to him, wincing at the taste before nodding and allowing himself to be helped from the bed, stretching out his limbs as best he could.

They found Dorian pouring over the notes he had made the day before, adding parts here and scribbling out sections there, a pile of books almost as tall as the man had appeared next to the desk, and every now and then he would grab one, flip to a page he knew had to be there, and either mutter in disappointment or smirk in triumph. He looked tired, perfect hair no longer perfect and with a darkness under his eyes that had not been there previously.

“Have you been here all night?” Hawke asked, peering over his shoulder and visibly making the man jump. He stood, though, all smiles and white teeth, showing no signs of any animosity after the previous days events.

“I often work through the night, it’s hardly anything new.” Dorian waved away the almost-concern, moving over to right the stool Fenris had occupied, still laying on its side from the night before. “We can get started again whenever you’re ready.” There was a slight wheeze to his speech, and Fenris was uncertain whether to feel guilt or triumph at that fact, so instead he focused on removing his tunic and settling himself down on the padded stool.

“Did you manage to find anything?” Hawke was attempting to make sense of some bit of paper or other, turning it in his hands in the hope that perhaps it was upside down, and that was why neither the writing nor the diagrams made little sense.

“A great many things, actually.” Came the reply, the mage gently taking the notes and placing them the correct way around in Hawke’s hands, not that it made any difference. “Whether any of them are actually of any use remains to be seen.”

“So what happens now?” The paper found its way back onto Dorian’s desk, and Hawke moved to fiddle with a small, bronze device that was sitting on the corner of the desk, the man clearly unable to stay still for more than a moment unless he had something to do.

“Now, I have to ask our dear grumpy elf here a few questions that he isn’t likely to want to answer.” Dorian settled in a chair opposite Fenris, far enough away that it would make it difficult for the elf to lash out at him, a fact which all parties present were aware of.

“Ask, then.” The elf stated, plainly. He had promised Hawke that he would try to behave himself, and he would. Try, at least.

“The process, can you describe it? Do you remember it at all?” The mage leaned forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him, paying attention to nothing but the elf in front of him lest he miss some important piece of the puzzle.

“I remember pain, maddening pain. My first memory.” It was a statement, nothing more. Fenris allowed none of the emotion that one might expect at such a thing, though somehow Dorian expected nothing less and he found it did not surprise him in the slightest.

“The pain...it made you forget?”

“Apparently.” The elf nodded, expecting further questions on his amnesia, surprised when they did not come.

“I’m not here to pity you, but I am sorry for your loss.” Dorian did not allow himself to pause before continuing, interruptions both unnecessary and time consuming. “Next question; do you recall who was there?”

“Danarius.” The elf growled, features darkening.

“Was there anyone else?” Dorian pushed gently, reassured that the memories only seemed to make the elf more irate, rather than causing him any real mental trauma. He wasn’t certain what he would do if the proud warrior were to suddenly burst into tears on him.

“Yes. I don’t know who they were, but there were others there.”

“Ah. I take it the process was carried out by one or more of these unknowns, then?”

“I couldn’t say.” Fenris shrugged, seemingly uninterested.

“I did think it odd that Danarius could create something like these.” He gestured to the intricate lines. “I’ve met the man, and he was about as artistically talented as he was kind and generous. That is to say, not at all.”

“You met him?” He didn’t miss the slight threat in Fenris’ tone, though it didn’t bother the mage overly.

“Indeed. It was at one of the parties my father insisted I attend. Vile chap, had two of his escorts killed for serving him the wrong wine. Turns out it wasn’t the wrong wine at all, he had simply partaken in too much of the over-salted fish starter, and had ruined his taste buds for the night.”

“That sounds like Danarius.” The elf nodded, raising one hand to brush silvery-white strands of hair from his eyes, still frowning but seemingly no longer bothered by the fact that the mage in front of him had previously been in contact with his former master.

“I remember him trying to dance. He looked a bit like a chicken slipping around on an icy pond. Of course, no one said anything; he was a magister. To openly criticise his dancing would have meant death, even for one such as I.”

“Is there a point to your babbling? Fenris finally snapped at the mage, scowling slightly.

“Not particularly. Shall we get back to the task at hand, then?”

“Unless you want to get reacquainted with by boot, I advise you get on with it.” The threat was there, but without much force to back it up it sounded empty to all three parties present.

“You wound me, Ser!” The mage laughed softly yet not unpleasantly, shifting in his seat. He seemed entirely unphased by the violent elf, and while Fenris had expected the man to complain continually about his unprovoked attack the evening before, as Anders would have done, Dorian did not mention it even once. “So, are you aware of how much lyrium was used in the process?”

“No.”

“Do you know how long it took?”

“No.”

“Do you know if any special tools were used?”

“No.”

“Have you ever tried to have the lyrium removed?” Dorian’s voice was low and gentle, without so much as a hint of annoyance, causing Fenris pause as he considered his answer.

“Yes. Many years ago, on my first escape attempt.”

“What happened, if I might ask?” There was almost a look of excitement in the mage’s face, eyes sparkling as he leaned closer still, as though the words might become lost in the foot or so of space that now lay between them. Had the chair not been of the large and decidedly heavy variety, Fenris was sure the man would have pulled it forward in his eagerness. It was almost sweet, in a strange way, and while the jaded warrior was near certain that Dorian would likely abuse the knowledge, as any mages was liable to do, for the moment he was trying to help and although he could not voice it, he was at least partly appreciative.

“It hurt like nothing else, I managed to remove a section of one of the lines, only perhaps as large as your thumb.”

“May I see?” There it was again, that almost childlike excitement that Dorian seemed to show whenever he found something truly fascinating and worth focusing on for more than a mere moment. His moustache would twitch slightly at the corners as he tried not to smile, always accompanied by that crinkling at the corners of his eyes, betraying the early stages of crows feet forming there, making him seem somehow more human.

“There’s not much point, you can’t really see it now. The lyrium took three days to grow back, and I was in constant agony for the entire time it did.” Despite this, Fenris found himself standing, unfastening his leggings and letting them pool around the tops of his boots, shifting so that the mage could see the light scarring around a small section of one of the brands on his inner thigh.

“That must have been horrific. To remove a section that big, I can’t imagine what the pain would have been like.” Without even thinking, Dorian had moved from his chair and knelt before the elf, his thumb gently tracing over the damaged area. While the skin carried the distinctive puckering of scar tissue, the brand itself was still utterly perfect, even to the touch. It wasn’t until he felt Fenris shiver that the mage backed off, an apology dying on his lips upon seeing the open and slightly confused look on Fenris’ face.

“Where are you going, mage?” Any animosity that should have been in his tone was suspiciously lacking, eyes following Dorian back to his desk, where he began rearranging his papers.

“I need to compare my notes, and it must be past lunch time already. You need to keep your strength up, go and eat something and we shall resume this afternoon.”

“And when are you planning on eating?” Fenris’ tone was almost accusatory, eyes narrowing slightly and a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t concern yourself with my eating habits, one of Leliana’s people will bring me something up this evening, I will be perfectly fine until then.” He held a page of notes up to the light of the window, frowning slightly. “Come back when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

Dressing himself, Fenris left without another word, Hawke muttering a quick goodbye as he followed, the door clicking shut behind them and leaving Dorian to his thoughts. He hadn’t seen the slight darkening of the elf’s cheeks, hadn’t been looking for it, entirely too engrossed in this impossible puzzle he had been presented with.


	6. Two Steps Back

As the days turned into weeks, Fenris found himself slowly adapting to spending so much time with the mage, surprised by how much he was enjoying the man’s company. Dorian was easily one of the most intelligent men he had ever had the pleasure of conversing with, hadn’t mocked him when he revealed his only very basic reading ability, and had even offered to teach him to play chess at one point. The elf had even on one occasion found himself chuckling at the man’s wit, which had earned him a glowing smile in return. The animosity was gone, and while he still could not trust Dorian entirely – the man was a mage, after all – he no longer felt the need to be quite so defensive around him at all times.

They were making progress, or so Dorian claimed. Every time the mage tried to show Fenris his findings, through notes and diagrams and images that may or may not have been runes, he earned little more than a blank look in return. Fenris had little interest in the process, only in the solution, though still Dorian would try to include him. The pain was getting far worse, though, as was the stiffening of his limbs, and as much as he did not want to worry Hawke or Dorian with them, the truth was always forced out of him one way or another. He found he could not lie to the mage, much as he couldn’t with Hawke, and on more than one occasion wondered whether perhaps it was the result of some spell or other.

Despite all of this, it was to Fenris’ great surprise when he returned to his rather sparse and entirely disinteresting room one evening after a particularly arduous session of testing and failing and moving on again, this magic and then that, to find a book sitting right in the middle of his bed where he could not fail to miss it. Picking the tome up cautiously, as though it might bite him, the elf did not bother to try to read the title - the only word he could make out was ‘of’, and in the gold, cursive script even that looked strange. The book looked expensive, he knew that much, and upon opening it to the first page he found a neatly written note in bold, easy to read letters.

‘A promise; once we have a cure, this will be our next venture - Dorian’

It took him a moment to decipher the meaning, though once he had the elf couldn’t help the tiny, almost invisible smile that tugged at his lips, thankful for the moment that he was alone, and that no one would need to witness his slight moment of weakness. He would not admit it outright, but the gesture pleased him, and he would take any opportunity to better himself since his reading lessons with Hawke had come to a stop following the business with the Chantry. 

Fenris placed the book down carefully on his night stand, the note tucked neatly away inside for safekeeping. Distantly, he could hear voices singing, too far away to work out what, and not loud enough to be an annoyance. Still smiling slightly, he turned to begin undressing for bed, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Something seemed off with his reflection, even in the dim candle lit room, and as he stepped closer to the reflective surface he froze, staring in shock at the face that stared back. He was pale and gaunt, a shadow of the man he once was, lacklustre hair in need of cutting and barely able to lift any sword any more, never mind his own. This he knew, this he expected. What he hadn’t expected to see were the eyes staring back at him; brilliant blue, not his usual forest green. They shone the colour of his brands when they were lit, and of the lyrium potions stocked in the infirmary. They were not his eyes.

As seconds ticked by, the blue seemed to spread outwards, almost glowing as it went, passing down the tiny veins in his eyes that should have run red with blood, now instead carrying the infestation of lyrium. The pain grew; inside his eyes, behind them, through his head and down, hurting, his choked cry lost to the empty room as Fenris crumpled to the floor, twitching violently once, twice and then growing silent and still.

When he awakened it was to the sensation of being jostled around, and voices singing so very loudly, his head feeling like it might crack. Fenris felt himself heave, and he must have made some sort of noise as whoever was carrying him stopped suddenly, moving the elf so that the vile remains of his dinner did not coat him, instead falling harmlessly to the floor. Cracking one eye open, he was vaguely surprised to see dirt in place of stone, and the complete lack of light betrayed the late hour.

Fenris tried to lift his arm, to grip at whoever was holding him up, and was alarmed to find that he could barely curl his fingers. Nothing seemed to be responding, though the person spiriting him away seemed oblivious to this, hoisting him back up with care and continuing at a jog. He found himself staring up at a familiar face - Krem, was it? Yes, he was sure that was right. The man was muttering something to him, but all Fenris could hear was the damnable singing, blocking out all other sound.

They stopped and Krem shifted the too light burden so he could pound urgently on the door of one of the only still candle lit rooms in the whole of Skyhold. It took only moments for Dorian to answer, looking tired and drawn as though he hadn’t slept in weeks - truthfully, he hadn’t really, aside from an hour here or there - the question dying on his lips upon seeing the listless elf.

“In, quickly.” The mage ushered Krem inside, clearing a space and laying a blanket down on the floor so the man could gently lay Fenris down upon it. “What happened?”

“Don’t know. Saw his room lit, thought it was a bit odd. Bull asked me to keep an eye out, said he had a bad feeling.” Krem hovered around the two, not certain whether he should try to help or leave. He was a warrior, a man of action, this situation had him on edge and he didn’t like it.

“You didn’t see what happened, what caused this?” Dorian tried to ignore the fear building in his gut, crouched down next to the prone form of his patient. He placed a hand on Fenris’ arm, and almost pulled away in shock at how unnaturally cold he felt to the touch.

“Nah, was how I found him, sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“You’ve been fantastic already, but I need to ask another favour.” Looking up at Krem, Dorian fixed him with a firm gaze.

“Name it.” This was something he could do, something he had control over, and it brought him back into his comfort zone almost immediately.

“I need a cot so he’s raised off the floor; by the fire, to keep him warm. I need blankets and a few buckets of water. They don’t need to be warm, I can heat them myself.”

“Anything else?”

“Drinking water.” Krem made to leave at that, Dorian stopping him once more at the door. “After that, wake Hawke. I need him to know what’s happening.” Krem just nodded and was gone, leaving the mage and the elf alone together, Dorian trying to split his attention between Fenris and desperately trying to work out what the answer was, while Fenris slipped in and out of consciousness. He was so close he could almost taste success, but Fenris was dying, and it appeared he didn’t have long left. Time was up and the last piece of the puzzle was still just out of reach.


	7. Losing the Battle

For the first time since Fenris had been placed in his care, Dorian broke one of his unspoken rules; he used magic on the elf without permission. The cot had been brought in and set up as requested, and with Fenris now situated by the fire which had been freshly stoked and was blazing brightly, the mage had set about trying to warm the rapidly cooling limbs. Every few minutes, an arm or a leg would twitch without warning, eventually escalating into full-blown fits, where both Dorian and Hawke had to hold him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself or fall from the cot.

“Isn’t there something we can do?” There was no mistaking the desperation in Hawke’s voice as he stood by the cot, staring down at his once again still friend. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, moving to pace and then stopping, not wanting to be too far from the elf in case another fit took him.

“I don’t know, I...” Dorian swallowed and pushed his hand through his now unkempt hair, exhaustion threatening to claim him. “I don’t have the answer yet, I don’t know what to do.” The pair locked equally frightened gazes, silence falling over them both for a moment, the sound of Fenris’ laboured breaths being the only sound in the room.

“Can we just try...something? Anything?” Breaking eye contact, Hawke’s attention moved back to Fenris, taking hold of his hand, the ice-cold fingers doing nothing to help the terror that threatened to consume him.

“I could maybe...healing magic?” It was a long shot - everything Dorian had found, everything they had tested thusfar, pointed to the removal of magic being the solution, not the addition of. On top of that, he wasn’t a healer, he had never been interested in the intricacies of healing magic, and this was not the best time to be practising.

“Will it work?” There was a glimmer of hope there, not much of one but at least it was there, anything was better than watching the Champion of Kirkwall stave off what could easily turn into a full-blown panic attack.

“I don’t know. I’m not a healer, I’ve never been good with healing magic.”

“What if it makes it worse?” Hawke’s voice was small, smaller than usual anyway, his gaze never leaving Fenris’ face, deathly pale as it was.

“It shouldn’t, I mean...I don’t think it will. Maybe. But oh, it might, Maker I don’t want to make it worse!” The usually self-assured and confident mage was growing near hysterical, trying to comprehend the impossible with a life on the line that he couldn’t stand to lose. Fenris decided at that point to start babbling softly, impossible to understand words in what might have been Tevene, though even Dorian was struggling to make them out. His eyelids cracked open, revealing the unearthly blue hue, and Hawke made his decision.

“You have to try.” They had to try something, anything was better than just standing there watching Fenris slip away. If Dorian wouldn’t take that risk alone, then Hawke would have to take control of the situation, taking the burden of blame himself should their actions prove disastrous.

“Alright.” Dorian took a deep breath, hands hovering just above Fenris’ chest, focusing his magic down and into the elf, feeling resistance as the lyrium seemed to push back against him. He could sense it, sense each tiny line that criss-crossed through the warrior’s body, below the surface, spreading unseen until now. He could feel the solidity of it, trying to push itself into him rather than accepting his magic, almost as if it had a life force of its own. It was a strange and distracting sensation, when he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Pushing against it, he was just vaguely aware of the gentle green glow that the healing magic gave off, and of Hawke’s worried vigil less than two feet away from him.

“Is it working?” The words went unheard, Dorian’s forehead wrinkling as he concentrated purely on what he was doing and where the magic was going. He tried to aim for the tissue around the lyrium, though with so much of the stuff inside Fenris it was difficult to do so, around his heart particularly which seemed to be beating entirely too fast, so much so that the mage was afraid it might simply give out. To his surprise, the gentle application of magic seemed to be working, Fenris’ mutterings drawing to a close and his breathing and heart rate returning to normal.

Eyes closed in pure focus, he didn’t notice when the elf stirred, didn’t hear Hawke’s relieved ‘you’re alive’, and most certainly did not see the clenched fist that impacted with his jaw and sent him sprawling across the floor.


	8. Friends in Strange Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this last week, with the intention of finishing it over the weekend. Instead, I ended up planning an EXTREMELY expensive Thranduil cosplay and reading LOTR fic!
> 
> I will have less time for writing this next week because of my work shifts, but I shall try to get the next chapter of this, and Seeing Red, out in the next few days. Please forgive me for the temporary slow-down in chapters.

Delayed pain blossomed through Dorian’s jaw, he knew it was broken even before his head stopped spinning, sprawled across the floor some way from the cot, propped up on one arm while the other gingerly held his damaged face. The impact had been hard enough to split the skin slightly and bring tears to his eyes through the shock alone, a smattering of watered-down blood droplets not going unnoticed on the hard stone floor. He had missed the rug when he fell, and the tiles had taken some of the skin from his left palm from where it had slid across foot-worn bumps and cracks, leaving another smear of red. Dorian could hear Fenris shouting some way away, and Hawke responding in kind, the two having an argument that would likely be the talk of Skyhold come the morning. There was no point staying, he thought, nothing he could do by then that wouldn’t make the situation worse. The damage was beyond his rudimentary healing capabilities, he needed to find someone to patch him up and clean the dirt from his hand; he would deal with the situation that had just transpired later. Fenris would be fine for now, and he had Hawke there to watch over him.

Resigning himself to the fact that, for the moment at least, he wasn’t needed by either of the two parties present, the mage stood on unsteady legs and stumbled to the door. He did not try to speak as he left, couldn’t have done even if he had wanted to, and he knew not to try to move his injured mouth until someone had at least had a chance to take a look at it. He didn’t bother to look back, closing the door behind himself, but if he had he would not have been able to miss the look of unbridled loathing Fenris had shot him, the elf sneering in disdain as Dorian fled from the room, seemingly unphased by Hawke shouting directly at him only inches from his face.

“Dorian?” He had barely made it twenty feet from the study he had been assigned when a voice called out to him. Krem stepped out of the shadows, earning a look of ‘don’t even bother asking’ from the presently mute mage. “Come on, follow me.” The shorter man sighed, leading Dorian through one of the back entrances of Skyhold and down into a part of the castle he had never thought to visit before. Presently, they came upon an innocuous-looking door, the warrior rapping his knuckles briskly against the wood and waiting for it to open. The mage wondered for a moment whether it had been such a good idea to follow Krem, though he had little reason to distrust the man, knowing that he would likely have been better off heading to the infirmary section and hoping someone was there to treat him.

“Krem?” The door had opened merely a crack, Stitches squinting out into the bright hallway. “What’ja want?”

“Just open the bloody door.” Krem replied, pushing his way into the room, and leaving a still mostly asleep Stitches staring at a slightly amused, but still very much in pain, Dorian. The copper seemed to drop, then, as the company healer ushered the mage inside and had him sit on what only barely passed as a bed. He found his hand tugged away from where it had been cradling his broken jaw, hilt-calloused fingers prodding around the tender muscle and bone, sending sparks of pain through him and setting his teeth on edge.

“Dislocated.” Stitches finally grunted, pulling back slightly. “Ready yourself, this’ll hurt like a bitch.” There was little Dorian could do but close his eyes and wait. He felt one hand at the back of his head, holding him in place, while the other carefully took hold of his lower jaw, paused for a moment, then without so much as a warning forced it back into place. A low, muffled cry sounded from the mage’s throat, and though the bone was back where it should be, the pain somehow seemed far worse.

“He’s not used to your brand of healing, try to go at least a little easy on him?” Dorian wasn’t sure if Krem was trying to crack a joke or not, and frankly he didn’t particularly care. Stitches did smirk slightly in response though, and it certainly seemed as though he was being marginally gentler from that point.

“Bone’s cracked here.” The healer ran his index finger down the skin just behind the cut, not pressing too hard, but enough that he could feel it. “It’s not too bad but don’t be too surprised if you lose that tooth.” At the wordless noise of protest from the mage, he simply shrugged. “There’s nothing to be done for it, if it goes it goes.”

Dorian sat quietly for the remainder of his visit, obediently allowing the man to clean and bind the mess he had made of his hand, before fitting what could only be described as a makeshift sling for his jaw to keep it in place. He was to wear it for at least two weeks, to make sure the bone healed correctly, and wasn’t to try chewing for at least three. Talking was also out of the question; the less he moved his mouth the better. Stitches provided him with a spare sling, along with enough bottles of something brown and unpleasant looking to last him three days, to be taken with a small amount of soft food three times a day starting as soon as he returned to his rooms.

“I don’t get it, why do you put up with that shit?” Krem asked as they walked slowly back up to Dorian’s rooms, a place he had barely seen for weeks. “I get that he’s attractive, but I doubt even you’re that shallow. Is it because he’s from Tevinter?” Knowing that he wouldn’t get a response, Krem glanced over at the mage, almost surprised when Dorian nodded in place of words he likely wouldn’t have spoken even if he could have. “What, some sort of comradery thing?” A shake of the head. “Something else, then.” The one-way conversation, or perhaps it would have been better referred to as a guessing game, grew tiresome and Krem sighed. “I don’t get you at all.”

Krem did not bother to ask permission once they reached the room Dorian had occupied since their arrival at Skyhold so many moons before. Rather, he pushed the door open with a squeak of hinges, stepping into the well-kept quarters and holding the wooden door open for the injured mage. Dorian made no protest, the pain proving to be rather more persistent than he had hoped, though he wasn’t certain why he had expected any less. He settled himself on his bed, the coverlet smelling rather stale as it had been neither slept in nor changed for some weeks. The proud mage wrinkled his nose slightly at it, but otherwise made no protest, as Krem busied himself setting the vials of medicine down on the table by the door, before slipping from the room with a promise he would return with something at least vaguely edible.

Dorian wondered distantly whether the man was this doting with the rest of the Chargers, or with Bull, or whether he was seen as something of a special case, being the ‘squishy mage’ of the group. Not that it mattered, he supposed, it was surprisingly nice having someone look after him for once, though that thought did little to numb the increasingly unbearable pain that seemed to be spreading simultaneously up into his skull and down his throat into his chest. As much as he was used to the pain of battle from his time with the Inquisition and even before, the sting of a burn from an enemy fireball or the bite of a Templar blade, the adrenaline then, at least, made it bearable. This was something new and unusual, and he was certain he did not like it.

“I’m back.” He must have zoned out slightly, head snapping up and wincing as the movement jostled the damage bones in his face. “Easy there, don’t go causing yourself any more damage, it’ll be bad enough explaining this to the Chief in the morning as it is.” Krem placed a bowl of what looked like the stew from two evenings past down on the night stand, Dorian pulling as much of a face as was possible in his present state. “Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. Was all they had that was soft enough.” Krem shrugged, passing Dorian one of the vials of brown liquid, uncorking it as he did and making a noise of distaste at the unpleasant aroma that wafted from the bottle. “Drink up, can’t taste worse than it smells.”

It did taste worse than it smelt. Far worse, in fact, and it left Dorian thankful that he swallowed the vile concoction before attempting to eat, as all his empty stomach could do was heave dryly in protest. Gulping down several spoonfuls of barely warm stew - meat removed and larger pieces of potato mashed into pulp, how thoughtful - he tried to as least disguise the taste that seemed to coat his mouth and throat, tongue still burning slightly from the brief contact with the viscous liquid. His jaw hurt even from the small movement of opening and closing his mouth enough to take the spoon, but he ignored it, and slowly but surely the pain seemed to dim.

“Slow down, man, you’ll choke yourself.” A low chuckle, then a kind hand rested upon his own, and Dorian found that Krem had sat himself down on the edge of the bed some two feet away, watching him with concerned eyes. It was almost laughable, really; in Tevinter, Krem would have likely hated Dorian and his family, simply for being the upper classes. Likewise, Dorian would have barely noticed the Soporati’s existence, and yet here they were sitting, as though friends, in a companionable silence. Dorian managed the smallest of smiles for his companion, squeezing the man’s arm in an unspoken ‘thank you’, before returning to the rather unappetising meal.

Dorian had barely finished the bowl when a wave of exhaustion rolled over him, both from weeks of little to no sleep, and an unnatural tiredness from, he presumed, the medicine. Yawning was out of the question, with his mouth at least, and with some help from Krem he was able to remove his outer layer of clothing without jostling his bound jaw too badly. The warrior adjusted the strapping around Dorian’s head, as Stitches had shown him, tightening it just enough that it would not cause pain in the night were he to move in his sleep. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he crawled into bed and was asleep even as his head hit the pillow, leaving Krem to shake his head in amusement and adjust the sheets to cover the sleeping mage.

He would stay the night, at least. Watch over the mage, make sure that bastard of an elf didn’t make another appearance. He had to, really; only three others knew what had transpired, and Dorian would need breakfast brought to him if he was to be able to take his next dose of medicine. Come the morning, he would make his report to Bull, and Krem had a feeling the news was not likely to go down well with the Qunari. 

Tomorrow, Fenris would face the Chargers.


	9. Two Lost, None Gained

”Don’t.” Hawke raised a hand to silence the currently-seated elf, mouth pressed into a thin line, not looking at Fenris. They had been arguing for hours, the sun’s light just barely showing through the slim windows of the small study. “Just, don’t.”

“I will not apologise for my actions.” Came the snapped response, Fenris’ eyes burning with a fire he had not known for too many months past.

“No, you never do. It doesn’t matter whether you’re wrong or not, as long as magic is concerned, you always seem to think you can do whatever you please.”

“And you think what he did was right?” The elf-warrior’s tone was incredulous, his usual timbre replaced by a pitch raised in protest.

“He saved your life, at my behest, Fenris! You would be dead right now if not for Dorian, and you know it.” Hawke was not a man to back down, even less so when he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was correct, and most certainly not where his friends were concerned. Yes, he had only known Dorian a scant few months, but the man had become dear to him in that time. Yes, he had known Fenris for years, been close to the elf once, but that did not excuse the injustice that was happening right in front of his eyes.

“So the ends justify the means?”

“No, they don’t.” Hawke finally sighed, turning his back on his friend and walking away. “Because in this case, ‘the ends’ meant you once again hurting a man who has only ever put your feelings first, who over the past few months has dedicated his every waking moment to helping you, and who has never so much as voiced an objection to the sheer level of abuse you keep throwing at him without provocation.”

“He-”

“No, Fenris.” The warrior cut him off before he could finish, staring over his shoulder at the elf from the doorway, pained expression clearly showing how he felt about the whole situation. “We both know you’ve been through a lot, but this is inexcusable. I’m going to try to find Dorian, to make amends and hope you haven’t ruined my friendship with him as well.”

“But-” Fenris couldn’t finish, the door slamming so loudly behind Hawke’s retreating form that it made the elf jump ever so slightly. He found himself alone, sitting in a room more familiar than any other part of Skyhold, kept company only by the familiar musty smell of books and the crackle of the fire at his back. Truthfully, he did feel a pang of guilt at his chest, moreso upon hopping down from the cot and finding his limbs looser than they had been in almost a year, the pain from the brands substantially less and his strength returning to him.

The smear of red across the stone to his right caught the warrior’s eye, and he frowned, crouching to investigate it. A part of him instinctively screamed ‘blood magic’, though he knew it not to be true, the blood still fresh and wet to touch, and he knew this had been his doing. He had lashed out, again, and Dorian had done nothing to defend himself, nothing to so much as retaliate. He knew the man was a powerful mage and a seasoned fighter, so it would not have been cowardice or weakness that stilled his hand, so what had stopped him?

Fenris stood quickly, wiping his blood-stained fingertips on the sheet that had been draped over the cot, as though not wishing for the mage’s lifeblood to taint him somehow. Skyhold was silent, save the chirping of birds in the eaves, and it was unlikely that either Dorian or Hawke would return for some time. Not knowing what to do with himself, and still somewhat light-headed, the elf took his time in wandering around the small room, trying to read some of the titles on the spines of the multitude of books piled up on shelves and on the floor. Some, like ‘Tevinter History’ and ‘Lost Elven Lore’ he managed to discern without issue, where others he could barely attempt to pronounce, and he had no idea what ‘Anomalous Transfigurations’ meant. 

The notes on the table were even more difficult to read, some scribbled in a quick scrawl while other pages held lists of neatly written words in what he assumed was Tevene. He traced over some precisely drawn runes with his fingertip, the meaning of them entirely lost to him. There were sketches of him, of the brands that marred his flesh, of a history written in lyrium by a man long dead though not yet forgotten. He managed to discern something about dragon blood and a ritual, but little else beyond that. Not for the first time, Fenris cursed his own inability, his curiosity on Dorian’s findings and the perceived potential for evil fuelled by his own ignorance on what was right in front of his eyes.

Thinking back over their time together, Dorian had never once so much as raised his voice at Fenris. There was the occasional smart remark or gentle tease, but nothing that could hurt, could burn. There had not been even one occasion prior to that night where the mage had done a single thing Fenris had not consented to. He had, in fact, shown the elf a sort of selfless kindness he had not come to expect from men; even Hawke had his own agenda, however well-meaning the Champion might be, which meant that the mage had to have one as well.

Either that, or the man was a fool.

The early risers of the Inquisition had begun to move about the castle by the time Fenris left the relative safety of Dorian’s study, shivering slightly in the cool early morning air, the warmth of the slowly dying fire difficult to leave behind. The sun was still sitting low on the horizon, as the elf made his way swiftly back to his own quarters, flatly ignoring the cheerful greeting he received from at least two of the strangers he passed. He wanted time alone, to think, to work out this strange conundrum that was Dorian Pavus, and to see what could be done about his damaged friendship with Hawke, the one man he valued above all others.


	10. Three Men and a Qunari

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have genuinely no idea what happened with this chapter! I started writing, and then boom, Hawke/Anders past angst!

The first knock was so quiet, Krem thought for a moment he might have imagined it, perhaps as part of the dream he was startled from. Sitting up straight, the warrior stretched, trying to unknot stiff muscles from where he had slept slumped in a chair the entire night, still dressed in his usual armour. It was a fitful sleep, the man waking to every slight sound, every movement outside the bedroom door. The mage he was guarding had remained thankfully still and silent throughout the night, so Krem had only needed to move from his spot the once to check that the harness was still in place. The sun had clearly begun to rise, from the soft light spilling through the windows, and for a moment he considered trying to get comfortable and sneak in another hour or so before he had to locate something for Dorian to eat with his medicine.

It was then that the quiet knock came again, Krem standing to open the door, somewhat surprised to find a rather distressed-looking Hawke standing there, fiddling with one of the laces on his sleep-wear - the same sleep-wear, in fact, that Krem had found him in when Dorian had instructed the man be brought to the study, before the incident with the elf.

“Can I come in?” Hawke asked, his voice low, knowing most of Skyhold to still be in their beds, and likely Dorian with them. Krem stood to one side, unsure what to make of the man, though without Fenris present he seemingly posed no threat to the sleeping mage. “That looks bad.” The warrior had crouched over the prone form on the bed, squinting at the leather straps fixed around his head in a most unflattering fashion. One side of his jaw was red and swollen, the cut there still raw and far from healed, though at least it wasn’t bleeding.

“It is bad. Mind telling me what happened?” Krem asked, folding his arms over his chest, armour clanking as he did so.

“Fenris happened.”

“I guessed as much.”

“What in Andraste’s name am I going to do?” Hawke ran his hands over his face, eyes closed for the moment. “I can’t keep putting him in harms way; this is the second time Fenris has lashed out at him, physically anyway and he refuses to see that he has done anything wrong.”

“It’s not just physical then, I take it?”

“No, it’s rare that Fenris can go more than a few minutes without throwing an insult or an accusation at him. It’s been better, recently, I’m not sure why, but then this happened.”

“And what did Dorian do in response?”

“Nothing!” Hawke threw his hands up in frustration, voice raised for a moment before he remembered himself.

“Nothing?” Krem asked, not quite believing it and yet Hawke had less reason to lie about Dorian than he did about Fenris, his loyalties lying first and foremost with the elf.

“Absolutely nothing. No magic, no fighting, nothing at all. He just acts like nothing’s happened.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got no idea.” Hawke laughed bitterly, scratching at his beard distractedly as he took the chair Krem had been asleep in only minutes before, looking exhausted. “Best guess? He’s trying to make up for a past he had no part in. He seems to want to ‘fix’ Fenris, not that it’s possible to fix something that badly broken. I mean, how do you even start to undo hatred that deeply engrained?”

“That sounds about right, actually.” Krem huffed, leaning against the now closed door. “Bull mentioned before that Dorian’s been trying to fix all the wrongs of Tevinter all on his own. He won’t do it, mind, but he’ll do himself in trying if we leave him to his own devices. Blames himself, I think.”

“He can’t seriously blame himself for the wrongs of an entire country, surely?” Hawke asked, incredulously.

“He can, and he does. Not everything, but some parts at least. Don’t know why, he hasn’t told anyone why, but that’s how it is.” Bull had spent quite some time studying Dorian, studying all of the people the Inquisitor held close in fact, and had shared the information with Krem. The man didn’t understand it fully, but he had no reason to doubt the Qunari’s information, and even less reason to question it.

“Do you think maybe he blames himself for what happened to Fenris, back then?”

“Who can say.” Krem shrugged, letting his arms drop from their position across his chest. “Probably, wouldn’t put it past him. Explains why he hasn’t been eating, or sleeping, and why he puts up with so much shite from that damnable elf.”

“Fenris has been my friend for more years than I care to count, and he’s someone you can really count on in a fight, but I just can’t excuse this. It isn’t the first time either.”

“He’s done this before, to other mages?” Hawke nodded to the man, scowling slightly in the low light.

“Not to this extent, to my knowledge anyway, but yeah. His hatred of mages is legendary, actually. At least Anders was able to defend himself, though. He was a healer, too, which helped. I don’t know the full story of what happened between the two of them, but it wasn’t pleasant.”

“And here we have a mage who won’t fight back.” Krem finished for him, the pair sharing a worried look. “Bull is going to want blood when he finds out, you do realise.”

“Honestly? It took everything I have not to want to hurt Fenris myself.” Hawke’s laugh was low and humourless, head dropping into his hands. “Do you want to tell him what happened, or should I?”

“I’ll do it. The Chief knows me better, and I know how to calm him down at least a little. I’ll make sure the elf survives, but can’t promise much else”

“Do whatever you deem necessary. If you can find a way to get through that thick skull of his, great. If not, just make sure he knows exactly what Dorian’s going through right now.” As if on cue, a light and most certainly pained groan sounded from the bed, and Hawke was on his feet in an instant.

“He needs to eat something, I’ll see what I can find. You keep an eye on him, and don’t let him speak.” Krem was gone before Hawke could respond, not that he had overly much to respond with. He took the mage’s hand in his own, standing at his side as Dorian’s long, dark eyelashes fluttered against tan skin, before heavy lids opened slowly, blinking owlishly for a few moments.

“Krem’s gone to find breakfast, he won’t be long. How are you feeling?” The mage groaned again, mouth held shut quite successfully by the harness he wouldn’t have been able to ignore had he tried. “Dumb question, sorry. He said you weren’t meant to be talking just yet.” Dorian shot him a look, and Hawke helped the man to sit, the mage clearly still somewhat out of it. Loosening the harness slightly, he passed the wounded man a glass of water poured from the pitcher by his bed, Dorian hoping distantly that a fresh jug would be provided later, or at least something that tasted less like three day old pond water.

They sat for a moment, Dorian prodding gently at his face, wincing every now and then. Hawke droned on at him, first about Skyhold, then about something the Inquisitor had said, and finally about a past Dorian hadn’t been part of, ending up complaining about the castle’s lack of healing mages. Said mage poured what little healing magic he was capable of back into himself, the cut on his jaw healing partly over and some of the swelling going down slightly. It was exhausting, he had never so much as tried to heal anyone before the night past, and now he was forcing himself to twice in less than a day. For perhaps the first time in his life, Dorian lamented over the fact that not only was he an unaccomplished healing mage, but that he was downright _terrible_ at it.

“Should you really be doing that?” Hawke finally asked when Dorian’s hand fell back to the coverlet, noting to himself how much better the wound looked for the application of magic. Dorian simply shrugged, turning his head to acknowledge Krem as he entered the room, Bull in tow carrying a tray filled with a selection of soft foods and at least three types of beverage, the hulking great Qunari having to enter the room stooped and slightly sideways to fit through the door.

“What’ve you gotten yourself into _this_ time.” The Iron Bull sighed, placing the tray down and gently, so very gently, inspecting the damage for himself. Hawke was astounded that such a large man was able to show that level of care, the mage barely complaining as he was held under close scrutiny for several minutes. Once the Qunari was satisfied Dorian wasn’t about to break, he added several more pillows behind Dorian’s back and head to prop him up - where had they come from? Hawke had no idea - placed the breakfast tray on his lap and instructed the mage to take the potion handed to him. All four in the room recoiled as the vial was uncorked, the stench making even the hard-stomached Qunari gag, though Dorian downed it without complaint. As the previous night, he immediately took to gulping down mouthfulls of blessedly hot porridge, a stark improvement on the broth he had been given previously, eventually noting the viscous concoction had been flavoured with honey, once the taste of the medicine had mostly passed.

“What in the name of all that is holy is _in_ this stuff?” Hawke was inspecting the discarded vial, placing the cork back in to stop the thing from emanating that Maker-awful stench.

“Not a clue, but the stuff Stitches makes gets you back on your feet in no time.” Bull grinned, depositing himself in the single chair in the room, the poor thing groaning and creaking under his great weight.

“As long as it works, but ugh!” The man placed the bottle down next to its full counterparts, throwing the neatly lined up vials a look of disdain, as though they could somehow understand his distaste.

“Pretty sure healing draughts aren’t meant to taste good.” The Qunari chuckled, keeping his one good eye on Dorian to make sure he ate a reasonable breakfast, though he had little need to worry, the mage had already finished off the porridge and was making his way through some soft, baked goods the cook had just pulled from the oven, tearing each one into tiny pieces so he would not have to chew. The mug of juice Bull had brought up with him - apple, it was all they had - was already empty, and Dorian was sipping on his tea to further soften the sweet scone and aid in swallowing.

“I can’t remember the last time I had to take one, truthfully.” Hawke admitted with a shrug.

“How’d you manage that?” The Qunari asked, surprised. Even with a mage around, the worst wounds almost always required some nasty-tasting liquid to be shoved down one’s throat.

“My father was a pretty good healer, had to be with three troublemaking kids running around.” He chuckled, smiling fondly at the memory. “Beth, my sister, she took after him in so many ways. I don’t think she was quite as good with healing magic, but if she had a fireball primed you’d better get ready to dodge! Took my eyebrows off a fair few times.” There was both mirth and sadness in his eyes as he recounted his childhood, Dorian’s attention set firmly on the Ferelden warrior as he ate.

“I didn’t know your father was a mage.” Krem piped up from his position leaning against the door once more.

“Yeah, they usually leave that part out of the stories.” Hawke gave the man a rueful smile. “He was a good man, my father. He deserved a better end than the one he got.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Bull had turned away from Dorian, expression one not of pity, but perhaps of understanding.

“Don’t be. He died protecting the family and the home that he loved, as did my brother. After Beth joined the Wardens, Anders became our go-to healer, and...well, you all know what happened after that.”

“You don’t have the best of luck with mages, it seems.”

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

“You miss him.” It was a statement, not a question. The Qunari was nothing if not observant - that had been his job, after all.

“Every single damn day.” Surprisingly, it helped to talk about it, even with near-strangers or almost-friends, whichever way you looked at it. He hadn’t been able to, not with Isabela and certainly not with Fenris. Varric had listened, for a while, not long after it happened, but that had been so long ago and he had been in so much pain then.

“I’d heard he lived, after the incident at Kirkwall? Yet you talk about him like he’s dead.”

“He is dead, he was dead by the time the incident with the Chantry happened, and I hadn’t even noticed. Then, in the end, I just couldn’t take the life away from the spirit that wore his face. That one decision destroyed any friendship I might have had with Sebastian, and cost the lives of countless men unnecessarily.”

“So the stories were true, then? About his being an abomination?” Bull’s attention had turned back to Dorian, the mage having pushed the breakfast tray away and readjusted the strap below his jaw, the pressure of the leather against his skin seeming to help with the pain somewhat, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Something like that. Spirits and demons and whatever the difference is between the two, he harboured one regardless.” The conversation was awkward, it could never have been anything other than awkward, not with the Inquisition counting Cole among its number and the strange boy being something of a friend to Bull particularly.

“You regret your decision?” This time it was posed more as a question, the Qunari knowing not to push too hard or assume too much, not where matters of the heart were concerned and not with something that was clearly still so raw.

“I regret a lot of things. Bela says I shouldn’t linger on the past, but it’s not easy. She understands, I think, and I love her all the more for it, but it’s hard. Having Fenris here drags up a lot of old memories.”

“And what do you want to do about our violent little elf?” Finally, the conversation turned to more pressing matters, the Qunari standing, chair seeming to breathe a sigh of relief as he did.

“What can be done? How can you stop someone from hating, when it’s engrained into their very soul? I have tried, for too many years, to make him realise that he’s wrong, but it hasn’t worked, and it isn’t working now.”

“I’ll talk to him, see what I can do.” Moving the tray, Bull tried to help Dorian adjust his pillows so he could lay back down, but the mage simply batted his hands away with a glare, the Qunari knowing him well enough to almost read the mage’s very thoughts; ‘I may be unable to speak, however I am _not_ an invalid and you will cease treating me as such this instant’.

“Thank you.” Some of the tension left Hawke’s shoulders, and he slumped back against the brick wall by the window. “Feel free to beat it into him as well, he’s pretty resilient, and whatever Dorian did it’s given him a new lease of life.” Hawke smiled over at the mage, who despite his drooping eyelids seemed genuinely cheered to hear of this, and had his body not been already mostly unresponsive to his whims, he would have likely sped off to his study to go back over his notes, the latest development more than a little exciting even given his current state.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.” Bull replied with a smirk, earning a surprised look from both Krem and Hawke, and a relieved one from the half-asleep mage on the bed. Taking the almost empty breakfast tray with him, Bull left Krem and Hawke to decide who would watch over the dozing invalid for the rest of the morning, working over what he would say to the ex-slave in his head.


	11. Violence Can't Solve Everything

It wasn’t hard to find Fenris; the elf had not been down for breakfast, and the kitchen staff had not seen him, which meant he was likely holed up in his room with a bottle of wine getting supremely drunk, or he was doing the same on the top floor of the tavern, spitting insults at Cole from across the room. When the latter proved fruitless, Bull went with his first choice, knocking firmly on the door of the small room and pushing it open, ignoring the grate and ping of metal warping and breaking as the lock popped off the old wooden door, when all he received from the other side was a grunt.

“I can see privacy is something you people are unaware of, though I wasn’t aware the Inquisition endorsed wilful vandalism.” Fenris was sprawled across the bed, bare from the waist up, a half-empty wine bottle clutched in his hand. Another lay, all but empty, on the plush rug on the floor, a puddle of red beside it where the last of the vintage had spilled upon being tossed away, which Josephine would likely throw a fit about when she found out. Bull, however, cared little for the state of soft furnishings.

“Privacy is something you get when you _don’t_ maim important members of the Inquisition.” The Qunari replied, kicking the door shut and pulling the single chair in the room out from under the large Orlesian desk.

“So you’ve come to get revenge, is that it?” The elf sneered, sitting up slightly so he could get a better look at the intruder.

“No, I came to talk.” Bull sat himself backwards on the chair, leaning over the low back, arms crossed atop the wood as it creaked in protest. “Mind telling me what happened?”

“Why does it even matter?” Fenris looked away then, taking another drink and scowling slightly.

“Because right now I have a drugged mage who can’t tell me, and a heavy-handed elf drinking himself into oblivion. All I’ve got are what Hawke and Krem have told me. Now you can either tell me what happened, or I can beat you senseless until you do.”

“Or you could just leave me be. Run back to your Inquisitor, Qunari, and stop wasting your time. I’ll be gone soon enough.” The sneer was audible, and to his credit Bull did not rise to it.

“You and I both know that’s not going to happen.” Bull huffed, fixing the elf with a long, hard stare. “I’ve already made sure you won’t be able to leave, the guards have been informed, so you’re stuck here.”

“I meant I’m not going to live much longer.” The elf snapped, still not meeting the intruder’s eye, his own somewhat bloodshot.

“I know what you meant. Yet looking at you, you look healthier than I’ve seen you, I don’t think you’re going to be keeling over as soon as you think.”

“Fastevas! I never asked for any of this.” Fenris sat round on the bed, legs flopping over the side as he ran his free hand through his silvery hair, frustrated.

“And yet here we are.” He gestured to the room as a whole, Fenris wincing slightly at the gesture, as though expecting to be hit. “You hate mages, I get it, I think we all get it now. I hate Vints, it’s no secret, and yet here I am talking to you, my Lieutenant is a Vint and Dorian, who by the way is a _very_ good friend of mine, is a Vint.”

“Why do you hate them?” The elf was curious more than anything, he knew that the Qunari had been at war with the Imperium for some time, everyone knew that, but he could tell that there was something else.

“I’m a Qunari, it kinda comes with the territory, you know? See enough of the bastards murdering unarmed women and children and the hate comes easily.”

“Then why keep them around?” That was something Fenris just couldn’t come to terms with; in Kirkwall, he tolerated the company Hawke kept, because it was Hawke. He still despised Merrill, and openly loathed Anders, but had enough respect for Hawke himself that he accepted the necessity of mages. Anders had saved his life on more than one occasion, and each time he hated the man that little bit more.

“Because it’s easy enough to hate an idea, but when you start seeing people as people, they just stop being part of that. That’s when things start getting messy. That’s when things like feelings and friendship get in the way of the hate, and you move onto more important things, like who’s buying the next round of drinks and whether they’ve got your back in a fight.”

“I can’t stop hating mages.” Mouth a thin line, he scowled down at his lap, clearly uncomfortable.

“And I can’t stop hating Vints.” Bull just shrugged, his tone remaining conversational.

“You’re saying we’re similar?” Fenris snapped, glaring up at the Qunari for a moment.

“I’m saying you’re an arrogant ass who hasn’t got his priorities straight just yet, so yeah, I guess we are similar.”

“You’re not like any Qunari I’ve ever met.” He finally lost the tension across his shoulders, offering the wine for the Qunari to take, leaning forward enough that Bull would be able to reach without standing.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Bull grinned and swiped the bottle from Fenris’ hand, taking a swig before passing it back. “Look, I’m not asking you to get over your mage-hate, I’m just asking that you start looking at the ones here as individuals, rather than as part of this imagined collective that’s supposedly trying to kill you.”

“Mages are dangerous.” The spluttered protest sounded weak at best, and Fenris knew he was losing the battle.

“They’re a damn sight less dangerous than you or me.” A dismissive shrug, and Bull finally moved his attention away from the elf, spotting the small collection of unopened wine bottles that had been stashed away in the corner of the room.

“They can’t control themselves, they turn to demons and possession as soon as they’re cornered.” Despite everything Bull had said making sense, Fenris couldn’t just forget the years leading up to this day, of the atrocities he himself had lived through, and the ones he had witnessed in Kirkwall.

“Really? Because we’re pretty much constantly cornered here, and not once have we had a mage turn to demons for help. The only one who hasn’t been able to control himself, is you.”

“But mages as a whole-”

“Look, Fenris, I’m not interested in mages as a whole. I smash up enough of the bastards to know how squishy they are, and I’m fine with that. We’re talking about a small number of _individuals_ , not ‘mages’, who are in the process of trying to save the world and don’t need you being a hard-ass to them.” The room grew silent for a long while, even the birds outside quiet as though waiting for something poignant.

“How badly did I hurt him?” Fenris finally asked, to his credit sounding slightly regretful.

“You broke his jaw pretty badly. It’ll get better, but he’s not going to be doing much for a while. Not ideal when we’ve got a demon-spewing hole in the sky and he’s part of the first line of defence.” Bull noticed the way Fenris winced at that, finally realising that his actions were further-reaching than his own tiny, tainted view of the world.

“He didn’t retaliate.” It wasn’t a protest, more of a statement, of something he couldn’t possibly understand.

“He wouldn’t have. Lucky for you, Dorian’s a genuinely nice guy, if a bit of an ass at times. Pretty sure Viv would have skewered you if you’d tried the same thing with her.”

“And if he had?”

“You’d probably be dead. Like I said, you’re lucky, he’s powerful and he doesn’t hold back in a fight.” There wasn’t a day that went by where Bull wasn’t eternally glad that Dorian was on their side, and not that of the Venatori. There was every chance that, without the mage, none of them would still be standing.

“I don’t know if I can apologise.” The wine bottle, now empty, was abandoned to the floor alongside the first to fall. With nothing else to occupy his hands, Fenris clasped them in his lap, feeling annoyingly sober considering how much he had imbued.

“Don’t then. I’m not asking you to be best buddies with him, just don’t keep with the mindless violence, makes you look more dangerous than the mages you hate so much. The rabid dog act doesn’t suit you.” The hulking Qunari sat back, making the chair squeak angrily, seemingly satisfied.

“I’ll try my best not to lose my temper again.”

“You do that.” Bull stood from his seat, pulling open the broken door as he made to leave. “By the way.” He paused, ready to step out into the hallway. “If anything like this _does_ happen again, I will break your arms.”


	12. Healing Commenced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a new chapter, it's only a MONTH AND A HALF LATE!
> 
> Sorry for making you all wait :(
> 
> Slight dub-con this chapter, due to the circumstances.

“I still do not trust you.” Fenris scowled, though the expression and his words were lacking any of their expected heat. Several weeks had passed since the incident, and while Dorian’s jaw was still incredibly sore, the healing tonics from Stitches and his own limited healing abilities meant he was able to eat solids once more and he was no longer banned from speaking, much to the disappointment of many around Skyhold.

“Nor would I expect you to. Now, this might feel a little strange, but please bear with it.” Dorian stepped forward, standing behind the half-naked elf, silently admiring the muscles that twitched across his shoulders. Fenris sat upon the same cot he had occupied the last time they were in this room, facing away from the mage, all stiff lines and poisonous barbs, even without his armour.

“I know how your magic feels, mage.” The elf scoffed, though he did not flinch at the touch of hands at his back, to his surprise the icy needles less intense than usual. If later questioned, he would of course deny vehemently that he leaned back slightly into the touch, or perhaps claim the motion to be unconscious, a lack of interaction with others causing him to gravitate towards the nearest warm body.

“Then tell me. Explain to me how it feels, so I can help.” Dorian could tell that Fenris was trying to get a rise out of him, some sort of reaction. He had no intention of giving the elf what he wanted, though. He had entirely too much control over himself for that.

“The pain is not something that you could understand.”

“Try me.”

“We are not here to make friends, mage. Do what you must.”

“A pity, and I was just about to invite you to the soiree I’m holding as well.” Was that an amused smirk on the warrior’s lips? The angle made it hard to see, leaning over slightly and pressing his palms against the smooth expanse of bare back before him. “I’m going to start now, please try not to hit me again.”

“I gave you my word, I’m not about to-” Whatever Fenris had been about to say was cut off by a sharp intake of breath, as the brands down his back lit up, starting as a small surge of power, then a slight trickle, until finally Dorian found his rhythm and the magic flowing through him became a gentle and constant stream. It was not any particular spell he was casting, a neutral magic, one that served no real purpose other than to clear one’s magical ‘sinuses’ whenever they became blocked, and to practice control. Something his father had taught him, back when he had first discovered his talent. Magical ability emerged quite early in the Pavus line, and Dorian had been no exception, starting at an early age and quickly excelling at everything he put his mind to. Not that it made any difference in the end, mind, but that was something to ponder on another day.

“How does that feel? No pain I hope?” Dorian’s brows knitted together in concern when the elf did not answer, and he almost stemmed the flow of magic and pulled away, but a mass of white hair falling back against his chest and the lyrium brands flickering to life stilled him. Fenris stared up at the mage, eyes wide and unfocused, his jaw slack and breath coming rapid and uneven. 

The sight of the proud elvhen warrior swiftly coming undone in his arms was enough to make Dorian lose concentration, just for a moment, and the magic flowing from his fingertips surged; not enough to cause any damage or discomfort, but it was apparently enough to draw a deep, guttural moan from the elf, the light near blinding. Fenris tensed against him, eyelids fluttering shut, before he twitched and jerked, hips raising from the cot, and Dorian had to force himself to look away, to give the elf at least some semblance of privacy.

Dorian waited until Fenris collapsed bonelessly against him, lyrium dimming, before arranging the elf on the cot, careful to avoid touching him as much as possible. His own mind was spinning, trying to fathom what precisely could have caused such a reaction; his intention had been only to give back the mana that the elf’s body seemed to be craving, and the spell itself was entirely innocuous, particularly in such a low dosage.

Once he had Fenris in position, happy that he wasn’t likely to fall to the floor at any given moment, Dorian fled. He could not bring himself to look at those brilliant moss-green eyes, or the hate that he knew would linger there. He felt dirty, ashamed, although he could not have expected what had happened. He stood outside the study door, his own breathing quicker than was normal, trembling slightly as he tried to regain his composure. He could not get the image of the elf out of his head, and the guilt that accompanied his body’s reaction to the thought was unbearable.

Fenris lay upon the cot, feeling none of the discomfort he normally would, either from the solid surface below himself or from the usual stinging of his markings. He was completely limp, yet fully aware that he had been left alone, somewhat grateful for that fact as he stared blearily up at the beamed ceiling. He had, it seemed, been wrong; he’d had no idea, until that point, what Dorian’s magic had felt like. In fact, he had started to wonder whether he knew what magic should feel like at all. He shook that thought away as quickly as it came, of course he knew. He had been in enough magically-charged battles, been subjected to enough painful magic himself, to know how most magic felt.

Dorian’s felt different. It had started as a warm tingle, surprisingly pleasant, something akin to sinking into a warm bath after a particularly long and arduous day. That feeling had increased as the flow of magic surged through him, becoming pleasurable, until each and every one of his brands had been singing under the mage’s touch. He had never felt anything like it, did not know something so intense could be possible without any pain.

Of course, he had spent himself in his undergarments, which were unpleasantly sticky and plastered to his front beneath his leggings. Still entirely too relaxed to move, Fenris simply ignored them for the moment; he could remove them later. He focused, instead, on trying to work out exactly how he felt about the whole thing. He should, perhaps, have been angry - certainly a few months back he would have been, Dorian would likely not have walked away as he had, but something had quelled that anger and for the life of him he could not decipher what.

Perhaps if the mage had remained in the room, rather than bolting with a look of shock and shame on his face, Fenris might have felt differently. As it was, the elf knew full well this had not been Dorian’s intention, and while it would have given him no end of satisfaction to rub such a thing in the face of a mage, somehow he knew he would not. Had it been the abomination, or the witch, things might have been different, but Dorian had never yet wronged him and as much as he still despised mages and all that they stood for, his conversation with Bull had put something of a new perspective on things. He could still hate mages, but yet he could not bring himself to hate Dorian. As, he recalled, he had never been able to hate Bethany.

Fenris winced as, finally, he swung his legs from the cot and sat up. His lyrium lines still sang to him, seemingly pleased, and the motion provided surprisingly little pain compared to the dull throb he had suffered from when entering the room an hour prior, and it was entirely negligible compared to the agony he had suffered for the months past. He had to wonder if it might even be possible for the pain to leave him entirely, though upon lighting his brands experimentally he did find that he wasn’t quite as pain-free as he had initially thought, letting the light quickly die.

Dorian felt the surge, even through the door, when the brands were lit, and of course he assumed the worst. He should really have fled entirely, putting at least some distance between himself and the glowing elf currently occupying the study. He had heard the tales of Fenris plunging his hand into the chest of whoever irritated him the most and plucking out their heart as if it were nothing, and he did not particularly fancy that particular brand of death. And yet, he found himself rooted to the floor, unable to leave. His own foolishness, he presumed, but he could not abandon the elf, and he hoped distantly that his shields would be enough.

“Blasted mage.” Fenris finally stood, stripping off completely, not particularly caring who might walk in on him. He had already embarrassed himself once that day, there wasn’t much more that could happen to further that. A cloth and the jug of always-present drinking water served as a makeshift bath, cleaning off the worst of the stickiness between his legs. He hissed as the cloth brushed against his softened cock, the skin there still entirely too sensitive, almost unnaturally so.

And there was still the problem of Dorian. Try as he might, Fenris simply could not bring himself to so much as dislike the man, and in fact found that he was perhaps even growing rather fond of him. He could hear the slight shuffling of robes outside the door, knowing the man would be waiting for him there, and he wondered for a moment what the mage might be feeling; fear was entirely likely, given his swift exit and Fenris’ own actions the last time Dorian had used any soft of magic on him. Arousal? He had to wonder if the mage had gotten anything from watching Fenris overtaken by pleasure, and he found that he rather hoped he had, though he would never actively admit it. The elf wasn’t typically vain, but he found something surprisingly pleasing about the idea.

“Mage?” Leaning against the wall beside the door, still entirely bare, Fenris listened carefully for the slight, surprised hitch of breath, smirking slightly to himself when he heard it.

“Yes, Fen- elf?” Came the low reply, muffled as it was through the wooden door.

“Thank you.” He murmured, just loud enough that he knew Dorian would hear him.

“You’re...welcome?” He sounded surprised, and understandably so. The realisation drew an almost wicked smile from the elf, and he was pleased Dorian was not present to see it, he liked keeping the man on his toes it seemed. “Did it help? The magic, I mean, not the-” He paused for a moment, an unidentifiable noise sounding through the door, one that sounded more than a little flustered. “Oh blast it all, you know what I meant.” He could almost see the pout on Dorian’s lips, and the way the mage near enough stomped his feet. If the flush was still present that he had witnessed earlier, that would complete the picture, and Fenris was struggling not to outright laugh at the man.

“It seems that it did, at least somewhat.” The elf shivered slightly; he still had not adjusted to the colder climate up in the mountains, and his state of undress meant he felt the chill rather more keenly than usual. “I will need clothes.” He stated, more as an afterthought.

“Yes, of course.” Dorian strode off in search of something that might fit the elf. He most certainly did not scurry; he was a Pavus and they did not _scurry_ , though Maker help him he really wished he could stop blushing.


End file.
